


Canal Street

by moth2fic



Category: Queer as Folk (UK)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-07-26
Updated: 2008-07-26
Packaged: 2017-10-11 04:27:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/108399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moth2fic/pseuds/moth2fic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An outsider watches the life on Canal street and despairs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Canal Street

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote these linked drabbles in response to prompts in a writing group. I was inspired by QaF but also by Canal Street itself (I live near it). The street, in the evening and at weekends, has so much buzz and life and excitement. I wondered what it would be like to want to join in and be unable to gain 'entrance'. A boy like Nathan might look longingly but if he wasn't pretty enough to attract attention...

 

Lurker.

He is at the edge. The street light just fails to illuminate him. He watches the drinking, flirting, daring. He listens to the laughter and invitations. A car rumbles past and he shrinks into the shadow of the bridge wall. When it has gone, he looks over into the cool depths of the canal. The ongoing street party and flashing lights are reflected, with the moon above or below everything. The thrum of music from one of the clubs echoes dully off the water. It is a closed society, open only to one with confidence and flair. He has neither.

 

Desperate.

He wants to be one of them. There is a grinding ache in his belly, his groin, his heart. He has no idea how to join in. If he approached someone would they laugh? Ignore him? How is it even possible to learn the right words, the right tone, the right gestures? Is money necessary? Are drugs an essential part of the magic? He swallows convulsively and tries to step forward into the throng but something catches at his ankles. He looks down and a swirl of old newspaper releases him but the moment is over. His bravery is shattered.

 

Zero Tolerance.

Crazy, to think he could approach someone less beautiful, less assured, on a lesser street. And yet his longing had finally got the upper hand and a reasonably pretty face had destroyed his usual caution. The other man’s face is a mask of shock and then he is running and shouting. A blur of blue light shows a police officer. Questions and threats. He has trespassed outside the charmed circle of the canal area. Turned firmly back, he feels despair. He knows he has no passport to the safe environs around the clubs. Unknown, he will not be welcome there.

 

A Waste of Time.

The water beckons. In daylight, he knows it will be murky, slicked by oil from narrow boat engines, flecked with crumbs from tables on the banks. Just now, it shines with promise and night. And yet, he has heard that if anyone falls in, they are taken to have their stomach pumped almost before being given the kiss of life. There are diners still, at the tables and his body would not go silently into that darkness. Not everyone in the crowd is too drunk or drugged to hear. Would seeking the kiss of death be a waste of time?


End file.
